November 4, 2009

A bird chirps outside my trailer(if it was inside I might have something:watching it spread its wings to fly before I set it free).On my back on the bedexhausted with seemingly everymuscle and bone in my bodyscreamingbabbling in pain,from the job.And I start to worry about my sons.Over the radio 2 idiots screamat eachother, one is on the political rightthe other on the left.Both are full of deep rank shit,as isanyonewho defines themselves in suchmoronic and dull terms.I turn the dial searchingfor some classicalmusic; some rock,jazz, Brazilian toe jam dancers,anything but the insipid wailingof the insane and warring world. I come acrossGeorge Gershwin’s Promenade, andsettle back on the bed.

I hear thebird; it approves and issinging along.Another day tomorrow atthe $8.25 an hour job-which gives me just enoughmoney to pay the rent, child support;it keeps me in food, cigarettes, beerand typing paper.Gershwin endsand some Chopinis on. Rain is starting to fall,tingeing on the roof like stray buckshot.And I wonder where the bird has flown forshelter,and I wonder how long my bodycan take it,and I wonder when I will settle with my lot,and I wonder how long the globalmadness will continue,and I wonder if my sons are safe,and I wonder again where the bird has flown forshelter.Chopin ends and some music I don’trecognize comes on. Rain fallsheavy and the wind is blowing.